Give Up the Ghost
by Taisi
Summary: Mikey's been on speaking terms with the things that go bump in the night ever since he was a little kid, but no one took him seriously back then. Not even Donnie. (Human AU, ghost hunters.)
1. Give Up the Ghost

A/N: Written for the tmntflashfic October challenge "hauntings." Happy Hallowe'en!

* * *

Mikey wakes up to a text from his brother that reads _**You're late.**_

He rubs sleep from his eyes and squints at the uncomfortably bright screen of his phone. The rest of his room is pleasantly dim, and there's no sunlight straining past the thin curtains at the windows above his bed. It feels too early to be up, and it wouldn't be the first time Donnie lied to get him out of bed.

He glances over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, and groans. Levers himself up on an elbow to thumb back a quick _**Its only five am don. I dont have to meet leo till 8**_

 _ **The power went out during the storm last night. Your clock is wrong, and you're late.**_

Belatedly, Mikey thinks to check the time on his phone. Then he yelps and throws back his blankets. Dog and cat both spring from the bed as Mikey disentangles himself from the sheets.

"You should've woke me up sooner, it's almost _nine!"_ he shouts down the hall.

Don slams a cabinet door in the kitchen, annoyed. Well, that makes two of them.

Mikey fell asleep four hours ago in jeans and a T-shirt, and those are rumpled but still clean enough, so he snatches Don's hoodie off the back of a kitchen chair and pulls it over his head to complete the ensemble, bumping blindly into the wall as he goes. Cramming his sneakers on without untying them, Mikey grabs his bag off the floor.

"I'll be back late tonight," he calls over his shoulder, and then he's rushing out the door.

Leo is too polite to leave more than two messages on his phone, and the last one is from about ten minutes ago. Mikey calls him while he's waiting on the elevator.

"I'm so sorry," he wails the moment Leo picks up. "My alarm didn't go off this morning and Don was a jerk and let me sleep in."

" _Don't worry about it. I'm waiting downstairs. We can still get there in time if we hurry."_

"Give me two shakes," Mikey says, jabbing the Down button more insistently. "And please tell me you have coffee."

" _I do. But yours is cold by now, I think."_

"Great, I'll be able to drink it faster. Okay," he adds, as the elevator doors finally rolls open. "I'll be down in a minute."

True to his word, Leo is waiting in the lobby, and hands over a large paper cup of what was once a piping hot caramel cappuccino. It's less than lukewarm at this point, but Mikey wouldn't have gotten to where he is today by being picky about what he puts into his body. He accepts it gratefully, and they double-time it to the parking lot.

The gear is in the trunk of Mikey's Jeep, two worn green duffel bags that they check and re-check before each gig, and they're not about to cut corners this morning just because they're running late.

"Everything's here," Leo says, zipping up the bags again. A few of Mikey's neighbors pass by a little too close for comfort, and Leo slams the tailgate shut before they can get an eyeful of gasoline canisters and sledgehammers.

"'Morning," he greets them awkwardly.

Mikey hides his grin behind his coffee, and manages a straight face by the time they're both in the car. Leo is plugging the address into his GPS while Mikey pulls into the road, and only speaks up again when they've gone a few blocks.

"It's been storming off and on since yesterday. Will that effect our – um, job? At all?"

"Man, Leo, you're one quick study," Mikey says cheerfully. "But that's just a theory. Some people think spirits are a form of energy, right? So their idea is that certain atmospheric conditions – weather like this, for example – are more conducive to the job than others, because apparitions are able to draw on the energy generated by the storm to manifest more easily."

"What do you think?"

"I think spirits used to be people, and some people like rain more than others. Everything else is way above my pay-grade."

Leo rolls his eyes, but he's smiling a little. Mikey's lucky Leo puts up with him.

They met last year, the week Leo's father died. Two days after the funeral, his father walked into his bedroom to tell him goodbye, as if he had never been gone. Leo was torn between the logical argument – that it was only grief, that he had imagined the entire exchange as a way to cope with the loss – and the more comforting idea of _something else._

He made his mind up pretty quickly. He found Mikey on campus the next day, and asked to join his paranormal society – which brought the members count up to two (Mikey included). He had some doubts, and a lot of questions, and a _wide-open_ mind. Their first conversation lasted four hours.

Leo found closure, and Mikey found someone to talk to. They've been friends ever since.

It's nice having another believer around. Mikey's been on speaking terms with the things that go bump in the night ever since he was a little kid, but no one took him seriously back then. Not even Donnie.

"Did you remember to ask your brother to look at the EMF meter?" Leo asks. Mikey nods without taking his eyes off the road.

"Sure did. He tinkered with it for awhile. It should work without a hitch this time."

* * *

It doesn't.

The homemade meter goes haywire the second they step foot inside the derelict house, and the feedback is so severe Mikey's pretty sure one or both of his eardrums are ruptured forever. He yanks off the headphones, doubled over while his ears ring relentlessly, and Leo puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him steady.

The EMF meter is dead, and refuses to power back on. Mikey stuffs it back in his bag, with a winning smile for Leo. It probably looks more like a pained grimace, if Leo's expression in turn is anything to judge by.

"Okay, no EMF. That's cool. We still have the – "

"It fried the thermal cam, too," Leo says, in the tone of voice that means he's very carefully not freaking out. He's holding the useless camera in his opposite hand. "I didn't even know they could do that."

"They can do all kinds of stuff. Just depends on how old, how strong, and how ticked off they are. By the way, I don't think I can hear out of my right ear anymore, or ever again, so do all your talking on my left side, okay?"

Leo frowns at him, an unamused, displeased expression that's become pretty familiar over time. It reminds Mikey of his brother, which only means it's easy for him to ignore.

"Should we split up?" he asks over Leo's _loud_ silent disapproval, looking around at the condemned property. He's a little impressed at how gloomy the interior is. It's early in the day, but with the heavy cloud cover from the storm, there's no natural light to leak inside and fill all the dark, dusty pockets of the abandoned house. Mikey's glad they brought flashlights.

"The last time you said that, a poltergeist threw you out a window," Leo replies, deadpan. "And _I_ had to explain to Don why you came home in a full arm cast. So _no._ "

Fair enough. Mikey passes him a light and leads the way further in. Without their gear, they can't do much this morning aside from get a feel for the layout of the place, and maybe tick off whatever happens to be squatting there.

"Never let a ghost know you're in a hurry," Mikey grumbles, trudging up the stairs. The whole place is cold and drafty, thanks to all the holes in the walls and the inclement weather outside, so it's hard to pinpoint an unnatural flux in temperature by feel alone. And whatever killed their equipment is either shy, or an asshole, because it's not making its presence known as they wander around. "This is dumb."

"It's not the ghost's fault we were late," Leo says mildly. "We can come back tomorrow, when neither of us have school. We'll have more time then."

Heaving a sigh, Mikey says, "Yeah, I _guess._ "

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out. Unlocking the screen with a swipe of his thumb, lead settles in the pit of his stomach the moment he sees who the call is from. He answers with no small amount of caution.

"Hey, Raph."

" _Get your ass out of that house_ now."

"Yeah, it's good to hear your voice, too, buddy."

A resigned Leo leads the way back to the front door. The house shudders around them, and Mikey can't tell if it's making fun of them or sorry to see them go. Probably the former, since the universe seems to have it in for him today.

Raph's car is parked next to Mikey's Jeep. Raph is standing in front of the sagging front porch, arms crossed, scowling darkly. He recognizes the borrowed hoodie Mikey is wearing instantly, and it does something bizarre to his expression. However, true to form, Raph doesn't let that slow him down for long.

"I _knew_ you'd be here. What the hell were you thinkin'?" he bites out the moment Mikey and Leo make it outside. "This place is _condemned,_ it could've come down right on top of you! And you, Leo – you shouldn't _encourage_ him, holy shit."

"Okay, first of all, the house is _solid_. Totally sturdy." The whole building chooses that moment to give a whistling moan, as if to prove his words completely wrong. Raph raises an eyebrow at him, daring him to go on. Mikey wishes he knew how to punch a ghost in the face. Maybe he can figure it out before they come back tomorrow. "And _secondly,_ I don't need encouragement, from anybody. If I did, I'd have found a different hobby _years_ ago."

Something goes soft in Raph's face, worried anger relenting into guilt. Mikey can only tell because he's known Raph since before he could walk. And he didn't mean to make his friend feel bad, but it's not like any of them have ever been big supporters of his extracurricular activities.

"Just," Raph starts, then stops, and runs a hand through his hair. There are bags under his eyes. "Mikey, come on. You're gonna get yourself arrested for trespassing, or hurt, or _worse._ There are other ways to cope."

Uncomfortable territory. Mikey shifts his weight, tightening his grip on the strap of the bag hanging over his shoulder. "I'm not – "

"Yes you are. We all are." Raph takes a step that closes the distance between them, bright eyes searching. It's hard for him to be so open, but he's trying. It curtails any thoughts Mikey might have of fleeing the scene. "You've been keepin' your distance lately, but you don't need to, alright? We're here for you, kid."

He puts a hand on Mikey's shoulder, up against his neck, fond and familiar. Mikey tries to remember the last time he did that, and comes up blank.

"We want you to move in with us," Raph says, quietly. He talks a lot softer these days. "It ain't right that you live in that big empty apartment by yourself."

* * *

"I'm home!" Mikey calls, kicking off his shoes by the door. "The hunt was boring, class was somehow even _more_ boring, I'm pretty sure I'm temporarily deaf in one ear, and most of my gear is broken again. How was your day?"

He drops into a chair as Don comes in, stepping smoothly through the wall between his bedroom and the kitchen, because the four extra feet to the doorway is apparently more effort than he's willing to make. He reaches over, and his fingers pass through Mikey's hair instead of ruffling it, but it feels the same in all the ways that count.

Sitting silently in the chair Mikey leaves pushed out for him, Donnie places a hand on the phone on the table.

 _ **What happened to make you deaf?**_

"Same thing that happened to all our stuff," Mikey says once he's read the text, doing his best to keep the whine out of his voice. "The ghost from this morning was a little camera shy. We just got through fixing everything after last time, too."

 _ **Don't complain. At least you weren't thrown out another window.**_

"You and Leo share a hivemind, you know that? You're linked in the brain." Donnie rolls his eyes, which makes Mikey grin in turn, and he pulls the re-broken EMF meter out of his bag for Don to take a look at. "The rest of the stuff is in the car. I'll run down and get it later, when it's dark, and no one will see me hauling suspicious duffel bags out of the trunk."

Don nods, and pokes at the homemade device Mikey set out for him. He was an engineering student before he died, and all of this comes so naturally to him. Mikey would be stuck buying his gear off eBay if it weren't for his genius brother. He's even learning a thing or two, since he has to do the physical building and wiring under Don's careful guidance.

Donnie's dog wanders over, a shaggy brown mutt with soulful eyes, and puts her head on Mikey's knee. Mikey pets her, and weighs his next words for a few minutes. The silence isn't uncomfortable; they're both used to it by now.

"I went to Raph and Casey's after class today," he says, carefully. "I guess April's been staying with them lately."

His brother goes completely still. Mikey aches for him. The larger part of his heart wants to drop it, wants to avoid talking about anything that makes Donnie unhappy; but an annoying, insistent little voice in the back of his brain urges him on.

"She's still really sad." Mikey looks down at his hands, so he doesn't have to look at Don. "I know you want her to move on, but … maybe you should let her decide that for herself?" Hesitating, he adds, "I think they'd like a chance to at least tell you goodbye."

After what feels like an hour, his phone vibrates.

 _ **Maybe.**_

It's more than he thought he'd get. Gratefully, Mikey lets the subject drop, and rests his chin on his folded arms. He'll stay up late, the way he always does anymore, to spend this borrowed time with his only family.

"I'm glad I didn't have to tell you goodbye," he whispers. Don looks up at him, and smiles.

 _ **Not in this lifetime.**_


	2. Introductory Course

A/N: my entire job in the tmnt fandom is writing woody into every au under the sun

 _someone_ has to do it

* * *

A knock on the door is an uncommon occurrence, and very rarely good news. It echoes through the warehouse-like meeting place of the two-man club, and Mikey puts down his radio to look at Leo, who sits across the table cleaning ash off the nicer of their two cameras, in consternation.

"We already paid the fee this month, didn't we?" Mikey asks, standing slowly. "And there hasn't been any property damage in _weeks_. We've been super under-radar, right?"

"Don't borrow trouble," Leo says calmly, gesturing for the door. "It could just be someone who got lost."

Mikey doubts that. The student committee tucked their club into the farthest corner of campus, making them all but inaccessible to anyone who wasn't up for a half-mile hike uphill from everything else.

The knock comes again, a little hesitant this time, and Mikey hops up the steps to the door and calls, "It opens out, hang back a bit."

"Oh! Gotcha!" an unfamiliar voice says, and Mikey shoves open the ancient door with curiosity well in the front of his mind.

He's met with smiling green eyes and a grin to match them, all but buried under a mop of tumbled yellow curls. The friendly-faced young man looks about his age and several inches taller, thin and long-limbed the way Donnie used to be.

"Hey," he says, offering a hand. "I'm Woodrow, but you can call me Woody."

"Michelangelo," Mikey replies, warming to the other man already as he shakes his hand, "and any shorter variation is fine by me. So what are you doing way out here? You're not lost, are you?"

"Man, I hope not. This is the paranormal society, right? I couldn't find your membership application online, so I thought I'd drop by for a copy. It took me almost an hour to find this place. You're a pretty well-kept secret, huh?"

Mikey does his best not to look as stupefied as he feels.

"Uh," he says eloquently, "wait a sec. You want to _join_ the club?"

"Definitely," Woody replies. "We had a similar club at my old school, but it was mostly just watching horror movies and looking up spooky EVPs on Youtube, y'know? I mean, it was fun, but - not really what I was going for."

Standing back to let him in, Mikey says, "So you just transferred here?"

"Sure did. I live with my uncle. We moved from Manhattan to be closer to his sister and her kids. She's going through an ugly divorce and she could use the extra help." Woody smiles at Leo, lifting a hand in greeting and trading introductions before he goes on. "I was going to a Visual Arts school before, but the admissions counselor told me my credits would transfer no problem, so I could finish my film degree here. Tuition is way cheaper, so I'm down with that."

He looks around their club room as he talks. Mikey can't help waiting for condescension or the always-fun, super-incredulous "are you guys for real?" but it never comes. Woody's face stays open and eager, eyes catching on the equipment on their listing table the way of a sticky-fingered kid in a candy store.

Mikey likes this guy.

"We'd be happy to have you, obviously," he says, and laughs when Woody's face lights up. "What, you were _worried_?"

"Well, a little!" Woody drops his bookbag on a chair and runs a hand through his hair, relieved enough now that he _must_ have been nervous. "I mean, I'll be real, I got a few chuckles when I asked around about you guys. And half the people I talked to didn't even know there was a paranormal society here. Maybe if that's all I had to go on, I'd be a little iffy."

He smiles, and points at Mikey.

"But I found a subforum online, local ghost stuff. People with the same problem all saying the same thing. Some scrawny college kid showed up and helped them, and left without leaving a name. But this city isn't _that_ big, y'know, and there aren't a lot of dudes that look like you and do what you do. You weren't hard to find."

Leo is smiling, a soft, full thing he directs at his hands, probably rightly guessing that Mikey wouldn't fully appreciate it at the moment.

"A _forum_?" Mikey says weakly. "Are you _serious_?"

"As a heart attack." Woody looks _fond_ , somehow, for all that they only met about a minute ago. "So, sure, you might be a bit of a joke around campus, and it looks like you get, like, _negative_ funding, but - " He shoves his hands into his pockets, and shrugs, and says around a grin, "You're the real deal. How many people can say that?"

Mikey sinks into his chair, and promptly buries his face in the scorched tabletop.

"So is there a membership fee?" Woody asks cheerfully, somewhere above his head.

"Nothing like that," Leo replies, sounding amused. "We'll get you a club shirt if you're interested, and add you to the official roster online. Meetings are daily, but there's no attendance requirement. We're actually going to check out a possible passive haunting next weekend, which is plenty of time to get you familiar with all the equipment."

" _Nice_. I have a Canon at home that I would swear by. Want me to bring it in?"

"Not if you're that attached to it," Mikey interjects without lifting his head. "We lose a lot of gear."

"Duly noted," Woody says, dropping into the chair next to his. "Is it dangerous?"

"It can be," Leo says honestly, "but we're always careful. And Mike usually takes the risky jobs by himself without telling me, because he's the worst club president in the entire world."

"Ouch?" Mikey sits up to look at him, wounded. "Tell me how you really feel, Leo."

Ignoring him, Mikey's best friend goes on without missing a beat. "Fifty percent of our time is going to be spent either corralling him or running damage control when his brother finds out what we've been doing with our free time."

Woody grins. "Protective, huh?"

"Almost to a _fault_ ," Leo says dryly. "But you probably won't see him much, so I wouldn't worry about it."

Considering he _died_ a year ago, neither Leo or Mikey add aloud.

"I do a lot of babysitting for my aunt, so I think I'm probably _overqualified_ to keep an eye on Mikester, here." Mikey squawks in indignation and Leo chokes on a laugh, and Woody pushes his sleeves up, reaching across the table for one of the battered cameras. "Mind if I help with some of these?"

It takes two days and most of a third afternoon for Woody to become a regular fixture in Mikey's life. He's hard-working and immensely likable, and ignores Raph's bark and bluster when he comes around with an unflappable ease that blows Mikey's _mind_.

It takes three months after that for Mikey to work up the courage to introduce him to his always-absent brother. Woody doesn't move for several minutes and when he does, for some reason, it's only to stand and pull Mikey into a hug.

Within a year, Woody is as comfortable with cramming into Mikey's wheezing double-bed as Leo is. His arm is warm across Mikey's waist, his heartbeat is familiar, and Donnie watches over them both with a fond smile.

And Woody laughs one day, bright and uncontrived, as they wait outside a burning shack for Leo to bring around Mikey's Jeep. They're covered in dirt and soot and some sort of clear, ectoplasmic slime that is a _very_ new development and one Mikey doesn't want to think about for too long until he's had a very hot shower, and Woody slings an arm around Mikey's shoulders.

" _Man_ ," he says, "I'm glad I'm here."


	3. The Right or Wrong Way

"We got a _ton_ of good stuff," Woody says happily from the backseat, panning through images on his complicated-looking camera. He looks up, grinning through a fine layer of hundred-year-old grime, and says, "We had permission to go in that house, right? From the owner?" **  
**

"Sure," Leo says, glancing at him from the passenger side seat. They're idling at a stop sign, because it's twelve a.m. on a Wednesday and traffic won't exist for another six hours; they can pretty much take all the time they want. "We always get permission first. Why?"

"'Cause I'm thinkin' we could upload some of this. Maybe make a Youtube channel, or a blog site. You want people to be able to find you, and an online presence is probably the best way to make that happen."

"We have a Facebook page," Mikey points out reasonably, eyes on the road as he pulls forward. In the reflection of the rearview mirror, Woody's grin warms into something fond.

"For someone with a tech genius for a brother you're a little clueless, Mikester. Trust me on this one?"

And that was never really the question; Woody has been with the club for nearly half a year now, and he hasn't balked once at any of the things he's seen. He goes in behind Leo and Mikey with that bulky camcorder on his shoulder, eyes focused forward and hands steady, and Mikey has come to count on his calm presence the same way he counts on Leo.

So it's easy for Mikey to shrug and say, "'Course, dude. I give you full creative license."

"For that, amigo, _marry me_."

And butterflies find a home in Mikey's stomach after that. They live there happily for a handful of minutes, and Mikey is smiling like a dork at the parking lot as he turns into it, until Leo says, "Isn't that Raph's car?" and everything immediately sucks.

"Oh, no," he says, spotting the station wagon. "No, no, _no_. Leo – "

"We can hide out at my house," Leo says immediately. His voice is soft with sympathy, even as he adds, "But I think it's a little too late for that."

He's right. Raph is leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded. It's _midnight_ , and he's staking out Mikey's apartment like a verifiable weirdo, and Mikey would rather be _anywhere else_ right now.

Woody sighs with feeling, packing up his camera bag with unnecessary force. "This dude needs a hobby," he mutters, one of three people in the world who are unequivocally on Mikey's side. Mikey appreciates the show of solidarity, even though it's hard to appreciate anything in face of the confrontation he's in for.

He shifts glumly into park, pulls the keys out of the starter. Dusts himself off half-heartedly because _that's_ a lost cause, trades a long-suffering look with Leo, and then pops open the driver's side door.

"Hi, Raph," he says. "Didn't expect to see you here. At my house, in the middle of the night."

Raph gives him a once-over and his mouth tightens. "You got a minute?"

"I have lots of minutes," Mikey says with forced good cheer. _Unfortunately_ , he doesn't add. To his friends he says, "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

Neither of them move. "It's already late," Leo says, meeting Raph's heated look with a cool one. "Mind if I sleep over?"

"Same," Woody pipes up. "Since we all got class in the morning, makes sense to carpool, don't it?"

Mikey is hopelessly grateful to have them both in his life. On one hand, Raph isn't someone he needs protecting from – Raph is a good person, and loyal to a fault, and he only comes around like this because he's worried about Mikey, and trying to do good by the memory of his best friend by taking care of his best friend's wayward little brother.

On the other hand, every conversation with him after Donnie died has been strained and uncomfortable, and it's to the point now that just _seeing_ him puts an anxious knot in the pit of Mikey's stomach.

"Okay," Mikey says, to all three of them. "Let's go upstairs, I guess."

Leo is texting someone on the quiet elevator ride up to Mikey's floor. Since Mikey knows for a fact that Usagi isn't awake right now and Karai is visiting her mother for the week, he has a good idea who Leo's texting, and he's proven right when he pushes the front door open and Donnie is nowhere to be seen.

 _Thanks, Leo,_ he thinks fervently. It's brutally unfair to bring one of Donnie's friends into the house without warning him first. The first time Casey dropped by unannounced, Donnie accidentally shorted out the power on the whole floor, and he was sad for _days_ after.

Woody casually sets his bag on the table, right over Donnie's phone. Mikey's friends are actual ninjas and he loves them.

Leo shrugs out of his jacket, pretends not to notice the hearty rain of dust that follows the action, and folds it over the back of a kitchen chair. Raph looks equal parts exasperated and incredulous.

"I get it," he says, "you're his guard dogs. If I promise I'm not gonna throw a punch, will you let me talk to the kid?"

Mikey's friends look pointedly at him. Mikey says, "Yeah, that's. Cool. Leo, Woody, you guys can grab a shower if you want. The half-bath is off Donnie's room, there's a shower in there, too. Raphie and me'll make us all somethin' to eat real quick."

For a second, it doesn't look like they're gonna move. After an obvious pause they both extract themselves from the room and head down the hall. It's soft, Mikey only catches it because he's listening, but they both murmur a greeting as they pass Don's room and despite everything else that small kindness makes Mikey smile.

"Grilled cheese," he decides aloud, and Raph dutifully heads to the fridge.

Maybe he's making a point to be less barbed, but the silence between the two of them is closer to companionable than it has been in a long time. They butter half a loaf of bread, peel open a handful of Provolone cheese slices, and the first sandwich is assembled on the skillet, browned on one side, when Raph finally says, "Your friends don't like me much."

Mikey looks at him sideways. "I haven't said anything to them to make them think – "

"Mikey, c'mon. I know that." Raph runs a hand through his short hair, weary. "I wouldn't like me much, either, if I was them. I don't mean to be an asshole, kid, I'm sorry."

"You haven't been," Mikey says immediately, heart bleeding for him. It's so _complicated_ between them anymore, but they were close, once. Close enough that Raph cares for him this much, even after everything. It makes Mikey feel small sometimes. "You're going through something really painful, Raphie, and it's hard. I get it." He hesitates, and looks down at the plastic spatula in his hand, and adds, "I know I don't make it any easier. Is Casey still mad at me?"

" _Mikey_ ," he says it like it hurts. "He's not mad at you. He never should've said what he did back then. He regrets it, he just doesn't know how to apologize."

"'Sorry' is a good place to start," Mikey murmurs, getting a new sandwich started. It easier to look at the food than it is to look at Raph when he adds, "It's okay if he's mad at me, though."

"Just _stop_ ," Raph thunders suddenly, slamming a fist on the counter.

The only reason Mikey doesn't flinch is because of the company he's been keeping lately, in a handful of haunted houses and churches across the state. Poltergeists are far more volatile than even Raphael, and with tempers much trickier. Mikey has seen far worse these days.

Raph looks sorry for his outburst anyway, floundering for a moment before steeling himself and soldiering on.

"You're so – _understanding_. You shouldn't be. You should be – all messed up, like the rest of us are. You should be _grieving_. But instead you're actin' like nothin' happened. Like he ain't gone, and you don't miss him."

Mikey's heart is a solid lump in his chest. The sandwich on the stove is burning, filling the air with an acrid smell.

"I know it ain't true," Raph goes on, softer. "I know that. I just don't know why you're _actin'_ like it, Mikey. It don't make any sense to me."

Movement in the corner of his eye makes Mikey look up. Donnie is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, and his brown eyes are miserable behind his big glasses, and Mikey wishes with his whole heart that he could give his gift away by the hour, lend it to all the people missing people they can't see anymore.

"There isn't really a textbook way to mourn somebody," Mikey says carefully. "There isn't a right or wrong way to hurt."

Raph doesn't have an answer for that. The smoke alarm saves them both in the end, filling the strained silence with shrill beeps, and Raph leaves not long after that.

Woody comes down the hall in a pair of borrowed pajama pants and one of their official club T-shirts, still toweling his hair dry. He gives the scorched grilled cheese a long, knowing look.

"Raph is still grieving," Mikey says firmly before Woody has a chance to make his remark. "He's allowed to be difficult."

"He's grieving _your_ brother," comes the unflinching reply. "He's not allowed to be difficult at _you."_

But that's not how grief works. It can come up from nothing, the same way love can, and it can be every bit as senseless and impossible and staggering as love can be, too.

No one gets to point at someone else and say "my grief is worse than yours, because my love was different." No one can be the judge of that. It's impossible to measure, impossible to make sense of. Mikey wouldn't even want to _try_.

But he doesn't say any of that. Instead he slides an un-burnt grilled cheese onto a styrofoam plate and hands it over, with an absent, "Your shirt's on backwards."

Woody scoffs but an involuntary flush rises in his cheeks – and despite everything else, Mikey can't help but smile crookedly at the sight Woody makes, as he tries to turn the shirt around without taking it off.

A few of those butterflies from earlier must have survived. And they must show on his face or give him away _somehow,_ because Leo takes one look at him as he joins them in the kitchen and rolls his eyes.

"I'm putting you both up for adoption," he tells them dryly.

"Empty threat," Woody says from somewhere beneath his shirt. "You'd miss us too much."

"I hate how sure you are of that," Leo mutters, then reaches over to nudge Mikey's arm. "Your turn. Shower. And then bed."

"Okay, mom," Mikey says agreeably, and neatly sidesteps the punch Leo aims at his shoulder. Woody snickers, and an animated argument picks up behind Mikey as he heads down the hall. He pauses in the door of Donnie's room, and says, "Bro?"

Donnie lifts his head to look at him, the only reply Mikey will get without his phone to serve as a communication bridge.

"Are you okay?" Mikey asks him, feeling small.

His brother stands and moves at a human pace across the room, and touches Mikey's shoulder with unsubstantial fingers. His lips move, forming words Mikey can't hear.

But at the end of it, Donnie smiles. Relieved, leaning into the hand that isn't really there, Mikey smiles back.


	4. Silent Night

A/N: here's how it happened

* * *

Mikey wakes up slowly, to a string of colorful Christmas lights and his brother's scared brown eyes.

"Donnie?" He tries to sit up, but his body doesn't seem to agree with the idea. There's a dull, throbbing ache all down his left side, sharp spikes of pain lacing through him as he starts to move, and he winces. "Donnie, what – "

The room is fuzzy and dim – it must be nighttime – and there's faint music playing from somewhere else. Mikey's head tips to one side, and he gets an eyeful of sterile white walls and tile floors and a heavy blue separation curtain.

"The hospital?" he mumbles, trying to put it together. "But why'm I – Donnie?"

It takes more effort than he's willing to admit, to roll his head back to the other side. Donnie is perched in the armchair next to the bed, pale and wide-eyed, and his hand on Mikey's arm is so light Mikey can't even feel it.

"Did I miss Christmas?" he asks, and falls asleep again before he gets an answer.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, daylight is streaming through the blinds at the window next to his bed, and Raph is sitting in Donnie's chair. His elbows are on his knees, face buried in his hands, and Mikey croaks, "Raphie?"

The effect is instantaneous. Raph's head snaps up like someone shot him, and he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

"Oh my god," he says eloquently, lurching out of the chair and grabbing Mikey's arm in hands that hurt. If it were anyone else, that wet sheen in his eyes would have looked like tears, but Mikey knows better. It's _Raph_. "Mikey? Can you hear me?"

"Uh-huh," Mikey says, squinting at him. "You look tired."

Raph makes a painful-sounding noise, one that sounds like it was torn out of his throat, and in the space of a blink Mikey finds himself hauled carefully upright and cradled against Raph's solid chest. Raph isn't generally big on hugs, and Mikey knows better than to miss the opportunity. His arms around Raph's waist seem to take whole pounds of tension off the older man's shoulders, and Mikey blinks a few times against his worn-soft cotton sweater.

"S'goin' on, Raph? Where's Donnie?"

A dark shadow crosses his friend's face, and Mikey startles a little. He's seen shadows like that before, and they have no place in Raph's bright eyes. Unease coils sickly in the pit of his stomach, and he leans away.

"Raph?"

"Let me get the nurse," Raph says, reaching for the call button. He's not making eye contact anymore, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "You've been out for three days, kid. Scared the hell out of us."

Mikey looks past Raph to scan the rest of the room, trying to locate where his big brother is lurking. His body hurts with gusto, and the haze in his head is clearing—everything is gaining in quality, like he's driving toward a radio signal instead of farther away—and the heart rate monitor next to his bed starts to beep faster, giving his frazzled nerves away.

"Where's Donnie?" he asks again, more firmly this time.

"Mikey," Raph says, slowly, and Mikey shrinks away from the anguish in his voice.

"Just—can you just go get him?" Whatever it is that's so terrible, having Donnie nearby would make it easier to bear. Donnie always makes things easier. "He's probably not far away."

Raph jerks, like Mikey hit him. There's a long moment of weighted silence, and then Mikey can't stand it anymore.

"What's going on?" he blurts, too loud in the quiet room. "Where's my brother? He wouldn't have just left me here. He'll want to know I'm—"

"He's gone."

"Then go get him."

"Kid," Raph says hoarsely. "He's _gone_. You were—when you left our place, the roads were bad. Real bad. On your way home, a car at the intersection hit a patch of black ice, and—" Mikey isn't aware he's shaking his head until Raph's hands come up to hold him still. "Mikey. They hit the driver's side going sixty. The EMTs said he died on impact."

"That doesn't," Mikey says, and stops. Tries again. "No, that's not—he was just here. I saw him. I saw him, he's—" Raph is watching him in acute misery, and Mikey pushes him away— _tries_ to push him away, except his try is kitten-like and weak, and Raph doesn't budge an inch. "He's _not gone_! Donnie!"

Mikey knows he saw him—but Donnie is nowhere to be found, now, and not even calling his name is enough to bring him running. The heart rate monitor is jumping even faster, and Mikey's breathing so fast and so hard it hurts, and by the time Casey and April make it into the room, hot on a doctor's heels, Mikey doesn't know what he knows.

* * *

The clock on the wall says it's two a.m. when a gentle, deliberate tapping brings Mikey out of a troubled sleep. Visiting hours are over, and so his room is empty—save the tall, bespectacled young man leaning over his bed. Mikey's charts are strewn haphazardly on the floor, and Donnie's prize—the ballpoint pen formerly attached to the clipboard—is clenched shakily in one determined hand. He taps it against the guard rail one more time, to make sure he has Mikey's attention, and then smiles tremulously.

It's enough to wake Mikey up the rest of the way in a heartbeat. He sits up, too fast—bruised ribs protest the rough treatment, and he ignores the ache in favor of reaching for his brother.

"Donnie! I _knew_ you were—"

His hands slide right through his brother's waist, and he blinks. Donnie taps the pen carefully against Mikey's arm, bright eyes liquid and sad.

"Oh."

Mikey feels his eyes burn, and covers his mouth. When he sobs, it's a soft, muffled sound, and it tears through Donnie like a knife.

"Oh, no. Donnie, no."

Grief is finally dawning on him, huge and terrible and toothed, and fear winds cold fingers through his ribcage. Dad died when he was a baby, and they haven't seen their mother in close to five years. Donnie is Mikey's whole family, and now—

The pen raps sharply against the guardrail. Donnie looks like he wants to throw it at Mikey—maybe he would, too, if picking it back up wouldn't be such a pain. He points at himself with a jerk of his thumb, and then jabs a finger at Mikey, curled up like a miserable pillbug in the narrow hospital bed.

It takes a moment, and Mikey blinks watery eyes at him. "You're—with me?" Hope hurts his heart, ballooning violently in his chest. "You're _staying_ with me?"

Donnie nods, and the scowl on his face goes soft. The room is bathed in a wash of cheerful Christmas colors, the multicolored fairy lights overhead twinkling slowly, and Mikey stares up at his brother.

And that terrifying heartbreak recedes slowly, like a tide pulling away from the shore. Of course Donnie would stay with him. Donnie would never leave him behind.

* * *

"Merry Christmas, kiddo," Casey says, when he and Raph come in the next morning. "You're gonna be stuck in here till you heal up a little more, so we bought you some yuletide joy."

Mikey beams at them, easing himself upright gingerly, and the nurse checking his vitals gives him a fond hair-ruffle before he leaves them to it.

"That's really cool of you guys, thanks! There's _nothing_ on T.V. We can't even find a channel playing _A Christmas Story_."

They're looking at him oddly, like his good cheer is out of place. Casey sits his bags down slowly, and Raph's face is a careful neutral that speaks volumes.

"Mike?" Casey asks quietly. There are bags under his eyes, but he still looks right at Mikey with a tireless kind of caring, like he'd drop everything and run for miles if he thought it might help. "You okay?"

Donnie is sitting in the nook by the window, and he smiles when Mikey looks past Raph's shoulder at him. Mikey smiles back, and lets his friends think he's admiring the snow outside.

"I'm okay."


	5. Caprice

Mikey's arm is probably broken again. His equipment is in pieces. His phone is about a foot too far away, and he doesn't think he could make a call on it anyway.

There's a pressure in the air like the buildup before a big storm, weighted anger sitting in this old house like peeling paint. He's so very much in over his head.

He spent the last five minutes solid wishing Leo or Woody was here.

Someone else showed up instead.

"Casey," he grits out, seeing stars, " _go away_. You're making it mad."

"What the hell are you talking about? I'm not just leaving you here."

Casey's arm is solid and supportive where it's wrapped around Mikey's shoulders, his brown eyes bright with worry even as his face is twisted into a dark scowl, and any other time Mikey would be really grateful for this, really.

But there's a nasty specter circling the room, a danger that Casey can't even _see_ , and Mikey is sick to think about what it might do. It's probably a few days shy of a _grudge_ , and Mikey has never had the misfortune of running into one of those before.

It opens the jagged line in its face that passes for a mouth, jaw extending the length of Mikey's hand. The wind screams in through the windows in lieu of a voice, and Mikey ducks his head against Casey's shoulder.

He's so out of his depth here. He should have gone home the second he realized Leo and Woody weren't coming. He doesn't know what to do shy of burning the house down, and that's going to be hard to do with a broken arm. Also he doesn't very much want to go jail.

For now he just wants to get out. He just wants _Casey_ to get out.

"I know you don't believe me, I know you never have, but it's not safe. Please, Case, _please_ go home. I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me."

For a moment, nothing happens. Mikey fears his words were lost to the howling wind.

And then, abruptly, Casey says loudly, "Jesus, if you don't want me here, I'll leave then. Good luck on your own."

But Mikey has known him long enough to know when he's being disingenuous. He blinks when Casey disentangles himself and eases Mikey back carefully against the wall. He still doesn't quite get it when the baseball bat is lifted out of the wincing cradle of Mikey's broken arm.

Casey says, sotto voce, "Where is it, Mike?"

And Mikey gapes at him, forgetting the pain in his body and the menace in the room for a handful of precious seconds.

One of the windows shattering brings him back. He whispers, "It's moving in a circle. It – can you see the shadow it makes? The light won't touch it. It's almost by the door now."

Casey nods, standing. With one hand in his pocket and the bat slung over his shoulder and a scowl on his face, he looks the picture of someone parting ways, headed in a beeline for the front door. The specter considers him for a moment that turns the blood in Mikey's veins to ice, but then its eyes move past Casey back to him and it continues its prowl.

Mikey can see it when Casey sees its shadow. To the older man's credit, he stiffens in shock, but he doesn't hesitate. He lifts the bat, twirls it once to be sure of his grip, and then swings it with all his might at the invisible creature two steps away from him.

It shrieks as the iron passes through its form, tearing it in two. Mikey scrambles to his feet, grabbing at his phone and what remains of his EMF meter with his good hand. He sprints to meet Casey and all but slams into him, pushing him toward the exit and relative safety.

The door falls open in front of them, hardly any strength left to its hinges. Casey snatches up Mikey's hand when he realizes what the plan is, clutching the bat in a white-knuckled grip at his opposite side, and they don't stop running until they're well off the property.

The screaming wind behind them is enraged. Mikey sinks to the ground next to his jeep and presses his hand to his wildly beating heart.

His phone is going haywire. Notifications pop up one right after the other, from his two best friends and his brother – _**Where are you?** **You didn't go to that house ALONE did you? We both got a message from you saying not to come**_ and _**is everything ok amigo? its not like you to go radio silent. dons losing his cool a little bit over here**_ and maybe worst of all, _**Michelangelo, please answer me. I don't know where you are.**_

"I _hate_ when those things know how to use my phone," Mikey mutters, feeling terrible. He taps out a reply in the group chat, and gets three replies, and then seven, and then twelve, in a manner of seconds.

He's afraid to look up past his phone when Casey says, "Wanna clue me in on a few things?"

Mikey keeps his eyes stubbornly down. "Do I have a choice?"

"Hah, no. I think I've earned some answers."

"That's not fair," Mikey says slowly. His heart is pounding in his ears. "You make it sound like I've been lying to you. I've _never_ lied to you. You just – you never _listen_. You said I was making it up. You said I was hurting April on purpose. You said Donnie was – "

"Mike." Casey doesn't sound like himself. "Stop."

He stops. Blinks wetly down at his hands, and feels sick to his stomach, and wishes for the fiftieth time that Leo was here, or Woody, or Donnie, or even _Raph_.

"Being a skeptic only gets you so far," Casey says, as easy as anything. "And calling the truth a lie ain't cute."

He kneels, mouth twisting. Reaches over and puts a careful hand on Mikey's head, pushing some of the tumbled curls out of his face. Says, "I've been an asshole. I'm sorry. Let's just – let's get you to a hospital, huh?"

Mikey, who hasn't been this close to him in what feels like years, leans closer and nods. Forgiveness comes easily, even after enduring years and years of disbelief and sidelong looks from someone who might as well have been his family.

"That bat suits you," Mikey says, easing his way upright. Casey opens the back driver's side door open for him, because they both know Mikey would sooner walk than ride in the front passenger side seat. Climbing inside, he adds, "How'd it feel to smash a ghost?"

Casey blinks at him, at the easy camaraderie where he had probably imagined some strained conversation instead. He looks down at the bat in his hand, flexes his grip, and grins.

"Not bad," he says. "Maybe I'll make a career out of it. You ain't hiring, are ya?"


	6. Place Your Bets (1 of 2)

They drove past city limits a good half hour ago.

This far into the country there's no light pollution to sponge away any of the dark, and when the headlights go out, it's like pitch outside the windows.

Casey tucks the keys into his pocket, and twists to reach over the middle console and rummage in the back seat. Raph stares at him.

They're in the middle of nowhere, for no immediately apparent reason, parked on a gravel road outside some derelict Colonial-style house that's probably been empty for years, and Casey still hasn't said _why._

And now he has a baseball bat.

"Found the sucker," he says with vicious triumph, then digs a flashlight of the glove compartment. "Alright, let's do this."

"Case, what the _hell,"_ Raph barks, nonetheless piling out of the station wagon with him. Neither of them have anywhere to be in the morning so he's not as pissed as he could be, but Raph has never done well with secrets or surprises. "What are we doin' out here?"

But Casey is already striding away, with purpose, up the drive toward the creepy house looming at them from the dark.

Raph allows himself a moment of wordless frustration, and another to desperately miss Donatello and the way he could talk sense into Casey better than any of the rest of them could, then follows.

Casey is very obviously casing the place, prowling up and down the front and peering into the dirty first story windows. What business he thinks he has here is still a mystery, and Raph isn't amused.

"Are you seriously going to break in?" he says dryly. "This is private property, even if it's probably condemned. We could get arrested for this."

"Like I give a shit," Casey says, oddly sharp, and busts out the little window pane in the front door. The noise is remarkably loud in the quiet of the country night, and Raph cusses under his breath and doubles his pace to join his boyfriend by the door.

"What the _fuck,_ Jones? I was kidding!"

Casey ignores him, reaching through the broken pane and grappling for the knob on the opposite side of the door. It finally gives with a grating turn, and the door sighs open on tired hinges.

"Couldn't get hold of Mike today," he says, shouldering his way inside. He turns the flashlight on and sweeps the beam through the foyer. There's an inch of dust on every surface, and generous curtains of thick cobweb that makes Raph's skin crawl. "And that'd be fine, I guess, but Leo and Woods can't get hold of him, either."

It feels like Raph has swallowed ice. It isn't like Mikey to go radio silent. Raph looks around at the dusty picture frames and covered furniture with a sense of creeping understanding.

It does seem like the kind of place Mikey would haunt, with his gadgets and nonsense expertise and his brother's glasses perched on the end of his nose, looking for ghosts.

It was kind of charming when he was little – the quirky baby brother, talking to people who weren't there. Mikey always had a weird way of finding trouble, of coming home with scrapes and bruises no one could account for. It got less cute as he got older, and traded bruises for sprains.

And when Don died, it got _bad,_ and never really got right again.

"But why do you think he's here?" Raph mutters, following the path of the flashlight as they head down the hall into the kitchen.

"'Cause someone texted me this address from Don's phone," Casey says shortly, and suddenly, his dogged fixation to _get here_ makes a whole lot of sense. "Didn't answer when I shot a reply back, askin' who the fuck this was and why the fuck they had this phone. So I figured, might as well show up. Could be that Mike needs me, or – "

"Could be that someone needs their teeth kicked in." Raph's hands are curled into fists that hurt at the idea of some bastard sending texts in Don's name, taking advantage of misguided Mikey, _hurting April._ "Got it."

But a sharp crack and a cry have them hurtling through the opposite kitchen door a moment later. Casey throws open a heavy door to what might have been a drawing room or a sitting room or some rich person shit, and Raph shoves past him a moment later, his heart a painful lump in his throat, because that's _Mikey._

 _Mikey,_ curled into a pathetic ball in some filthy house on a moth-eaten rug, and he flinches from Raph's hands when Raph tries to tug him up, wide eyes searching blindly for a familiar face.

"Fuck, fuck, Mikey, it's me," he says, panicked. "Case, get over here with the light. Kid, look at me."

Casey was only a step or two behind him in the first place, and kneels with a soft curse. This time, when Raph reaches for him, Mikey leans into his hands with a breath of relief that works its way out of him like a sob.

His dusky face is ashen under that impossible mop of curls, and he's bruised from his temple to his jawline, and he's trembling as if from cold. Raph hugs him, hard, and keeps him there for a long minute.

"No one could find you," Casey says sharply, without preamble, "not even Leo. Mike, what the hell are you doing out here?"

"Dunno," comes the hoarse reply, and Raph tightens his grip on the kid reflexively, because nothing and no one should ever make Mikey this scared. "I dunno, I – last I remember, I was at home, getting ready for – "

He flounders, and Casey prompts him, a little more gently, "Woods says you were supposed to be at his house yesterday, for movie night. You never showed."

"Y- _yesterday?"_ Mikey's face goes pale. "What – time is it?"

"It's like two in the morning," Raph says incredulously. "You're sayin' you don't remember comin' out here?"

"No! Did you see my Jeep outside? Did I drive?"

Casey and Raph share a quick look. There's no way they could have missed his Jeep on the lonely stretch of country road, and short of taking one hell of an expensive cab ride out here for grins and giggles, there's no other way he could have come, save _walking_.

Raph's thoughts take a nervous turn. He can't help thinking what hallucinations and blackouts and talking to things that aren't there might _mean._

Casey, on the other hand, is thinking along different lines. His grip on the iron bat tightening, he says, "Do you think it's – something?"

Mikey flicks a startled look at him. His eyes don't dart back to Raph's face, but only by what looks like sheer willpower. Raph has no clue what the hell is going on here, and a whole host of fresh worries to lose sleep over, but for now he stands and brings Mikey up with him, keeping an arm around the smaller man's shoulders.

"Home," he says decisively, with a narrow glare at Casey. "We can talk about whatever the hell your 'something' is later."

Casey's flashlight goes out. Mikey jumps when the room is plunged into darkness, and Raph grits his teeth – it's been years but maybe he'll always get angryfor this kid's sake, maybe he'll always get defensive when Mikey gets scared, even if it's over something senseless, like a light bulb burning out.

"Just the light, kid, it's okay," he mutters, gruff, but even Casey is pressing in a little closer, and the atmosphere is thick with tension.

"Oh," Mikey says suddenly, softly, "oh, no."

Casey lifts the bat, absurdly, like there's something in the darkness to fight. The room is much colder than it was when they arrived and it's becoming something of a struggle to breathe, as though the air is thinning. The back of Raph's neck prickles and he has to stomp down the urge to look over his shoulder. He wouldn't be able to see anything anyway, not without a light.

"Let's go," he says firmly. "We can find our way out."

The door slams shut so forcefully that the room shakes beneath their feet.

Dread drips into Raph's heart like melting ice, and Mikey says in a very small voice, "I don't think it wants you to leave."


	7. Place Your Bets (2 of 2)

Here's the thing: Raph isn't an idiot.

It isn't the wind or a weird power surge when Casey is knocked to the far side of the room, thrown against a wall hard enough that he drops the bat.

It isn't all in Mikey's head when something grabs him by a fistful of his dark hair and tries to yank him away.

And it it sure as shit isn't Raph's imagination, or some weird dream he's cooked up after a long night and too many horror movies, because he takes a vicious scratch down the length of his face and it works much better than a pinch on the arm.

This is real.

Which means - well. It means a lot of things.

First and foremost, it means that Raph's a fucking asshole.

Mikey's eyes are wide, locked on a point in front of them a good two feet above their heads. When he speaks, his voice is small and scared.

"All my gear's in the Jeep," is what he says, "I don't have - I don't have _anything._ We need to - Raph, you need to get out of here. Take Casey and - "

And maybe that says all that needs saying, right there. That Mikey could look at Raph and see someone who might be convinced to leave him behind.

"I'm not goin' anywhere without you," he grits out, ironclad and irremediable. "Start thinking of a new plan, buddy."

He tightens his grip on the kid to make matters clear, and thinks of all those times Mikey came home on a limp, came home torn up and bruised, all on his own out there in a world Raph never believed existed.

Not on his own, an unkind voice in the back of Raph's mind is quick to point out. He's had Leonardo, and Woodrow. Closer to him now than Raph is, believing and supportive and helpful in all the difficult areas of his life his honorary siblings abandoned him in, and damn if that thought doesn't sting.

Mikey looks up at him. Looks _right_ at him, the way he avoids doing as much as he can these days.

There's life and color coming back to him with every second, amber eyes fierce where they peek through the dark curls tossed into his face. There's no time to get into it now - no time to unpack the skeletons shoved into the crowded closet their little clan shares - but that look promises a Talk later.

Raph's looking forward to it, if it means they'll _have_ a later.

One of the windows shatters, effectively snapping Mikey's eyes back to whatever looming threat is in front of them. He studies it, gaze flickering here and there, that awful fear pushed back to make room for something wild and reckless and brave.

Raph recognizes that look from their shared childhood; remembers the way Donnie would groan and Casey would laugh and April would look upon them with fond exasperation as Raph followed his honorary little brother headlong into fun and trouble.

It seems like a lifetime ago. Maybe he still remembers how to do that.

"Casey, you still alive?" Mikey mutters without moving, and the dark cursing from somewhere behind them answers that neatly enough. "I need you to make a call. There's no way we're getting out of here without help."

Something snatches a chair away from the wall and throws it past them with a vengeance. Raph ducks closer to Mikey and just barely avoids getting clipped by it, wincing at the sound it makes when it splinters against a wall somewhere in the dark behind them.

Raph only has a moment to worry about Casey before his boyfriend steps into place behind them. He's moving on a limp, but he doesn't look as terrified of their situation as he rightly should be.

"Who am I callin'?" he asks, sotto voce.

"Leo," Mikey says promptly, and then twists out from under Raph's hands.

Moving quickly, the kid snatches a kerosene lamp off the table beside them, spins on his heel, and - as far as Raph can tell - throws it directly into the face of whatever has been staring them down. It smashes against the carpet with a heady thud and the delicate tinkle of breaking glass, and Mikey says, "This might suck."

Raph knows him well enough to experience a moment of real fear at the declaration. "Wait, what are you - "

And then he gets it, because Mikey flips open a zippo lighter - _Raph's_ lighter, that he must have lifted off his person sometime in the last handful of minutes, the little sticky-fingered thief - and tosses it into the puddle of oil.

It ignites in a sudden brilliant rush, a billow of light and heat that fills the room like a pillar. Behind the dull roar of fire, Raph can hear an angry shriek, like a violent wind tearing through the room. Mikey backpedals quickly, hands raised to his face, and Casey snags him by the hood of his jacket with his free hand and yanks him back.

"You're insane!" Casey yells, and coming from _him_ of all people it's a pretty bold claim. He was holding his phone to his ear a moment ago but now he's scrambling to shove it in his pocket. "Now we're stuck in here with a ghost _and_ the house is on fire!"

The fire starts to spread immediately, eating into the carpet underfoot with hungry glee, and Mikey is already looking around for something _else_ to throw into chaos.

"It can't stand the light," he says, managing to make it sound like lighting _the room they're trapped in_ on fire was the only reasonable course of action available to him _._ Mikey's eyes land on something heavy sitting in the middle of the dusty table, a decorative antique piece that's probably worth more than Raph's car, and he lunges over to grab it in both hands. "This is the first floor, right?"

"Yeah, why - "

One broken window later, Raph knows why. The fresh air feeds the fire, and it gets bigger and hotter behind them, and Mikey starts coughing when heavy smoke goes billowing past them out the window.

"Fuckin' incredible," Casey is grousing, using the bat to knock out the rest of the glass. "Out, _out,_ let's get the fuck out of here, let's go!"

They clamber through together, the heat of a small inferno at their backs, and Raph tumbles into the cool grass with his heart in his throat. He and Jones have done some crazy shit in their lives - adrenaline junkies, Donnie used to call them both fondly - but this is next level crazy.

Mikey is already scrambling to his feet. He reaches back to tug Raph up, too, and says, "Hurry up, we gotta get off the property. Where's your car? Please, please tell me you didn't take an Uber here."

"Out front," Casey rasps, hooking an arm under Raph's elbow and heaving him upright. His hand lingers for a moment, tight and desperate, and then he lets go to shove Raph a step ahead of him. He still has that bat in his opposite hand, raised and ready.

The three of them round the corner of the house at a dead sprint, and Raph has a moment to wish they'd parked in the drive instead of out on the shoulder of the road when the front door of the house slams open and all the windows on the first level blow out in a cacophony of shattering glass.

Mikey yelps and nearly trips, but between Casey and Raph he doesn't go down. They half-carry each other the rest of the way to the car, and then Casey's in the driver's seat with the key in the ignition, and Raph just barely manages an inward _thank god._

"Casey," Mikey gasps from the backseat, "your phone?"

"Fuck," Casey says, pausing to dig it out of his pocket again. He never hung up and the call is still active - there's a frantic voice on the other end, and Raph can only imagine what they've been hearing. "Here, someone take - "

Something slams against the side of the car with enough force that it rocks over onto two wheels for a perilous few seconds. Casey's phone goes flying and lands with a mad clatter on the dashboard, its bright screen mirrored against the windshield. The back doors both get ripped open, and a second later Mikey's half-dragged out of the car.

"Mikey!" Raph throws himself over the back of the seat to grab Mikey's arm, snarling at the empty darkness outside. "Let him go!"

For a split second, Raph sees it. A dark figure that skirts past the headlights, too tall to be human, featureless and faceless with long, tapered fingers and a gaping jaw. It's there and gone again so quickly it could have been a trick of the night.

If it's trying to spook Raph into loosing his grip it has no _idea_ who it's messing with. He grits his teeth and digs in his heels, because _goddammit,_ this kid is his _family,_ and he's not letting go without the fight of his fucking life.

Casey twists abruptly, reaching up to punch the interior lights on manually. The instant the lights come on, the opposite pull goes slack and Raph yanks Mikey the rest of the way inside. They sit there, breathing heavily, huddled as close to the middle of the car as they can. The back doors hang open in the black nighttime void like an invitation.

"What now?" Casey whispers. "The engine won't start."

"It wants _me,_ " Mikey says hoarsely. "Just leave me here, okay, go get help."

And then the forgotten phone goes haywire.

It's vibrating hard, screen flickering wildly, and white noise fills the car - pours out of the speakers at the same time the radio surges to sudden life, dial wagging madly through half a dozen stations. The dash comes alive with an abrupt flick, the open door warning starts up with a bright chime, and the interior lights and headlights shine brighter until they're stark white and hard to see through - like a power surge, building and building and building.

"Power," Raph says abruptly. "Casey, power! Try the ignition again!"

He does, shoving the key into the starting and twisting viciously. The engine turns over and he shifts into reverse and stomps on the gas. They go peeling backwards with a violent jerk, the tires blowing smoke and spitting gravel, and Raph snatches Mikey back when he makes a move to lean out and close one of the doors.

When they reach the highway, it takes a heart-stopping three seconds for Casey to shift out of reverse, but nothing stops them from gliding onto the smooth blacktop into the warm orange glow of a streetlight, and they head back to the city at thirty over the speed limit.

All of them are tense - Casey's eyes keeping flickering back to the rearview, and Mikey is turned around in the backseat to look out the rear window. They finally got the doors closed, but the interior lights are still on, because none of them feel safe in the dark. It's nearly ten minutes before anyone speaks.

"Holy fucking _shit,_ " is what Casey goes with. Raph can really only agree with him there.

"Hey," Mikey starts, and then doesn't seem to know where to go from there.

Casey and Raph trade looks. Raph turns around to look at the kid. He's a mess, eyes red-rimmed from the smoke, dusky skin scraped and bruised. If he's been missing for as long as they think he has, he's probably hungry and exhausted on top of everything else, but adrenaline's left him shaky and wired.

Under Raph's scrutiny, he wilts a little.

"Sorry," he says. "That could've been… really bad. I'm sorry."

"It ain't your fault," Casey tells him shortly. "That thing snatched you somehow, remember? And you didn't ask us to come out and get you, we did that on our own. I don't wanna hear anymore sorrys."

Something that tries to be a smile tugs at one corner of Mikey's mouth but gives up halfway through. "Um," he says uncertainly, like he's testing the waters between them, "can I ask - "

The phone ringing cuts him off. Raph reaches over to pick it up off the dash carefully, and hisses when it's hot against his fingers. He swipes to answer the call and doesn't get a chance to so much as say hello before a familiar voice is demanding, _"Mikey?"_

Mikey leans up on the middle console with big, hopeful eyes. Raph passes him the phone.

"Leo," he says, sounding painfully, exhaustively relieved. "It's me. I'm okay, I promise - I'll explain everything when I get home. Yeah, I'll meet you guys there. About ten more minutes, okay?" He laughs softly, and if it sounds a little wet and rough around the edges, Raph isn't going to call him on it. "No, it's fine, he's with me. It got a little rough over here and he came through to lend a hand." In the driver's seat, Casey mouths _'a little rough'_ with an incredulous look on his face. "I didn't know he could, either. We should probably stop assuming we know everything, huh? Yeah. You, too, buddy. See you soon."

He passes the phone back with a soft, "Thanks. They were worried."

Raph nods. He watches Mikey sit back and lean a bit to the side, like knocking shoulders with someone who isn't there. Feels the burn of the overheated phone against his palm, and thinks of the light and noise that came exploding out of it when they needed help. He knows that malevolent force they left behind is what killed the engine, somehow, the same way it killed the lights inside the house - and it stands to reason that an equal, opposite force would be enough to undo it.

 _'He came through to lend a hand,'_ huh? Raph blinks through a telling burn in his eyes and turns around to face out the windshield again. The city looms ahead, bright and neon in the gray sky of pre-dawn. At the end of this road, Mikey's got a place full of people waiting for him to come home, and Raph doesn't have a doubt left in the world about who one of those people is.

'Cause Mikey may be a lot better at telling lies than he used to be, but he can't disguise the way he sounds when he's talking about someone he loves. And he never loved anyone quite like Donatello.


End file.
